


Fall Into Me

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 12:34:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9549188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: She's afraid of touching Joan though she aches to run her hands through hair so dark that it's turned to steel. She's afraid – mostly – of being rejected by Joan. Of having her hands placed elsewhere. Of feeling the bitter pangs of rejection afflict her lonely, aching heart.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes, you just HAVE to write some self-indulgent smut featuring these two. I sail this ship proudly. The title's inspired by the song "Fall Into Me" By: Alev Lenz. I highly recommend it!

A shift rotation flutters within Vera Bennett's grasp. There's a frailty to its wavering like a hummingbid's frantic pace. She stares at the Governor's door with a stewing nervousness. It's not a sweet flower lurking behind that door, but an authoritative voice promising guidance. It's a good enough nectar for Vera. Better yet, it gives her hope.

With a deep exhale – the kind she's learned from instructional exercise videos – she knocks. ' Come in ' drawls that silken tone. Out of habit, the deputy gnaws on the inside of her cheek. A habit attributed to girlhood to refrain from the tears that always came regardless. She wears a timid smile, her head down, still so very new to the game.

Governor Joan Ferguson's seated at her desk as though it's a throne. A regal air hangs about her. She exudes a suffocating sort of self-confidence. The faint half-grin on her lips betrays the glimmer in her eyes. It's a look that's always plotting. Better to be one move ahead then two steps behind. She looks up from her Mac desktop and the paperwork that's sorted itself into a neat pile, courtesy of leather-clad hands. That polished, gleaming desk remains neat and tidy despite the surrounding chaos. Not a single pencil out of place.

“Do lock the door behind you, Miss Bennett.”

It takes several moments for Vera to adjust, the manila folder wagging in her grip like a lazy dog panting after a hearty run. She blinks several times, exhaustion tethered to her spine and causing a terrible ache underneath her eyes. These late night shifts were the worst. With the women asleep, it took every fiber of self-restraint for the deputy to remain awake.

“I-I'm sorry?”

She shakes her head ever so slightly, as though she's trying to hear the words a second time, but Joan Ferguson hates to repeat herself. The Governor has a habit of placing an emphasis on her enunciation with bone sharp syllables that are _certain_ to jolt anyone.

“I do believe you heard me, Vera, or should I have Miles cover you shift and send you home? You look terribly **worn**.”

There's a harshness to Joan's words that unnerves Vera. It brings up a conversation with Wentworth's former governor, Meg Jackson. The woman had a knack for being nasty. In this moment, she struggles with herself. She's a timid mouse, chewing on her own tail, grinding her teeth and furrowing her brows in uncertainty.

Joan sets her pen in its black chrome cup. The palms of her hands rest flat on the desk. Her stare's penetrative. Makes you feel like this is the Last Judgment and Vera feels it. Hangs her head in slight shame.

“Chin up, my dear. This job gets the best of us. Myself, included.”

Governor Ferguson wears a fitted smile, her tone light and amicable. Joan believes it herself. It makes shy, vulnerable Vera smile in return, desperate for something when it's nothing at all.

“Yes, Guv'na. Sorry. It seems I'm not myself at this hour.”

Relenting, she locks the door. Makes a light-hearted joke out of it.

“--Here are the rotations, as requested.”

She hands them over, preferring the monotony of paperwork compared to the actual interaction with the inmates. They're alike in that way though neither woman will admit it.

“Thank you, Vera. I trust they will be as thorough as ever.”

Vera hears the praise. Focuses on the compliment. It makes her chest warm, her heart fuzzy. Flushed in the cheeks, she smiles wider this time. These days, her bun remains a frizzy mess, nowhere near as immaculate as her mentor's.

Ferguson's relieved her of the burden of the folder. It finds a home in a drawer to be looked at come the end of the evening. The chair pulls out. Joan's standing suddenly. Six feet tall with a few extra inches thanks to polished heels. The gloves are off, nestled within the pocket of her blazer. A hand swipes over the front, down the glistening buttons. She's standing too close. A heat as intense as Hell itself radiates from Joan Ferguson. Vera feels it and swallows. _Why am I feeling this way? I'm not gay. I like men. I like-- I don't_ _ **know**_ _what I like._ But it doesn't matter. The label's fucked just like her.

She looks as though she's about to kiss her. Instead, Joan smiles, her eyes half-lidded, an amused expression painted across her face.

“Vera, shall we keep this off the books? You need to rest. If the inmates plan a riot, I will be more than aware of their pathetic little plan. The cameras are sufficient enough when exhausted employees require a moment's reprieve. Sit down.”

Her tongue curls when she speaks. It's always an elegant jargon to accompany an elevated way of thinking. Vera imagines Joan in a lecture hall rather than here in a correctional facility. It's a silly fantasy, but it warms her. That is, until she registers what the Governor said. A guiding hand on her small shoulder won't take no for an answer.

The Governor tells her to sit. Dutifully, she obeys. The leather's cushioned beneath her buttocks. It's like floating on cloud nine. Why, it's even working wonders on her back. A soft, satiated sigh escapes her.

“You've coveted this chair for years,” Joan drawls.

Eyes wide, Vera doesn't respond. Feels the hand on her thigh, the breath against her cheek. The hand moves to her neck, brushing away a few strands of hair. Cruel intent lingers behind the words, the double-meaning that's sinister underneath though a gentle inflection on the surface. Nervously, she swallows.

“I-- um, J-Joan? Er, Guv'na, I'm afraid I don't know what you _mean_.”

Her voice becomes pitched. Vera curses herself for it. Curses her girlish insecurities that never seemed to go away.

“Nonsense, Vera. Ambition serves as the food to success. Now, sit back. Enjoy yourself. I know what's best.”

How it frightens her to hear something so achingly similar to her mother.

_We shouldn't._

She thinks it, but doesn't say it. Maybe it's all a dream. Dream be damned, she'll enjoy it. She's earned it.

The first few buttons of her jacket come undone to make for a little breathing room. A kiss is purposefully planted above her brow and it's the softest touches that tend to unravel you in the most beautifully devastating way. In desperation, Vera cranes her head back with chapped lips parted for a soft kiss that doesn't meet her full way. Joan's lips meet the corner of her mouth and leave her _starved_.

It's a taste of power.

Joan's sinking to her knees, a capsized ship, with Vera in the chair.

Skirt and nylons are discarded lifelessly beside her, but oh – the Governor's meticulous about that. Folds them beside her after shooting a laser beam glare. Vera flashes an apologetic look after kicking her way out of her knickers. The firm hand on her calf warns cautions the deputy to take it slow. To forget about the ethics and to enjoy herself. Petty hedonism serves a purpose, after all.

She's afraid of touching Joan though she aches to run her hands through hair so dark that it's turned to steel. She's afraid – mostly – of being rejected by Joan. Of having her hands placed elsewhere. Of feeling the bitter pangs of rejection afflict her lonely, aching heart.

Instead, her hands grip the back of the chair. Instinct parts her slender, wiry legs. Her tie's askew. Joan glances up, catching a generous glimpse of cleavage. A wine-colored bra that boosts ample breasts. She squeezes one for good measure. Squeezes and kneads her fingers to coax out a quiet whimper from Vera's birdcage frame.

  
“Please, Joan, _please_. Kiss me--”

  
Already, she's not adverse to begging. Vera nibbles on her bottom lip, her brows furrowing together in her time of need. She wants to taste that mouth against her own, to feel that tongue in a delicate dance with hers. Hell, she wants Joan Ferguson and it's more than she bargained for.

“--Not yet,” Joan cuts in abruptly and it feels like a slap.

The torture's delicious, but borders on being painful. Her deputy exhales. Sharply. Her body's made of tense wires. She looks down at the proud woman between her legs who still manages to sound so smug. This woman plays her for a fiddle. No, a cello's more the governor's style.

Haunted by her one night stand with Fletch, she recalls the discomfort of penetration. It's forgotten when she remembers there's a woman of power intent to please her. She shifts her weight in the chair. With kisses trailed across her pale thighs, her head lolls back like a ball-jointed doll. Vera enjoys the callousness to the touch: the biting in between the kissing and sucking that is certain to leave a mottle of black and blue. Strong hands pry her legs apart. Her hair's disheveled. She already feels like a fucking mess and she hasn't come _yet_.

That elegant slope of a nose ventures past her slightly damp curls. Fingers part her swollen, wet lips. A curled tongue tastes the sweetness, the bitterness; it's almost as tasteful as Vera's tears, Joan decides. Accompanied by the bobbing of her head, the lashing of her tongue works slowly. In and out in a rhythmic motion though it's far from mechanical. It's artful. It's passionate.

Long, thick fingers replace that skilled mouth. The pumping starts off at a slow tempo. Then, a crescendo. A grand flourish that jostles Vera in the chair. She bounces upright with a barely muffled shriek, surprised by the rawness that scratches her throat. She's wet, she's tight, and the heat in her stomach is so intense. Her hips enthusiastically meet the rhythm of Joan's fingers that spread inside her.

Somewhere, she hears a chuckle and an “eager, aren't we?”

A blush scourges her cheeks. It burns with a newly found shamelessness.

The husky tenor of the Governor's voice is replaced by a wet sound and a dark, unabashed hum. Vera feels the vibrations shoot to her very core. It's too much. She mewls and she whines, barely able to issue any words. She can feel herself clenching around Joan's tongue, Joan's fingers. She's falling into her. Her body slumps forward, but the Governor catches her: hand on her chest. Honest to God, it's better than death. Joan leaves her breathless.

Her orgasm's harsh, but it subsides into a low throb from within. Bright, blue eyes flutter shut with her lips parted in an enticing manner. Joan takes the time to retract herself from Vera. She licks her fingers like a cat grooming itself. One last taste to commit to memory before reaching for a healthy pump of hand sanitizer. Better safe than sorry. It's practical.

Now, she seizes opportunity and places a kiss on Vera's mouth. It deepens and Vera finds herself melting, her lips opening. She tastes herself there. It should be depraved, but it's not. She's blushing, a schoolgirl reincarnate, when Governor Ferguson kisses her. It tastes slow and never-ending, a burn that will chew her up and spit her out.

She didn't expect to feel this way.


End file.
